Mr Bingley’s grin widened for a moment, then he sobered. “I hope you know that I have no wish to burden or intrude upon either of you. If your sister, at any time, wishes that I cease to communicate in this manner, do tell me. I write as much in hope of distracting her from her troubles for a while as of coming to know her better.”
Elizabeth was conscious of the risks of allowing this to continue; greater than the slight chance of discovery was the possibility that one or both of them would experience an increase in their affections, which might then be painfully ended by Jane’s death or disfigurement. Yet she was conscious also of the joy her sister had received from the first communication, and she did not wish to deny Jane any opportunity for pleasure in the present circumstance.
“Well, sir,” she said after a moment, “Jane was certainly delighted by your first note. If her reception should change, I will make it known to you.”
Jane received this second letter with a pleasure tempered only by her illness, even rousing herself sufficiently to comment on the disgracefulness of his penmanship. “I shall not be able to reply,” she remarked sadly as she handed the page back to Elizabeth to lock away inside the escritoire, for her hands were now covered in emerging blisters, and to hold a pen would surely cause pain.
“If you will take an ice, half a bowl of broth, and some barley water, dearest, I shall scribe your reply for you.” Elizabeth was not above bribery to ensure her sister was fed, despite her painful throat and mouth. Jane grimaced but agreed, and it took almost two hours, with frequent and lengthy pauses, to accomplish the feat, but at the end of it, Jane had taken as much nourishment that morning as the entire day prior and Elizabeth was more than happy to pick up her pen and fulfil her part of the bargain.
* * *
When Darcy arrived at Longbourn that morning, he had hardly dismounted before the front door opened. Instead of Mr Hill ushering him in out of the cold, Miss Mary Bennet hurried out, fastening the clasp of a cloak with one hand while pulling the door closed with the other.
“Miss Mary.” He bowed as concern overtook surprise in his mind. Usually he was admitted into the vestibule to enjoy a few minutes of warmth while speaking with Mrs Hill, who always prudently positioned herself at the far end of the small passage.
She curtseyed. “Mr Darcy. There is illness within the house. We do not yet know whether it is the smallpox, but it is best that you do not enter, sir. Please forgive my lack of hospitality, under the circumstances.”
“Of course, you are correct to take precautions. What may I tell Mr Jones of the situation within?”
“My mother and my sister Lydia became feverish in the night, and not half an hour ago Mr Hill was put to bed with a fever also. Everyone else continues well.” For all her cool, rational delivery, Darcy could see her hands twisting together beneath the cloak.
“I shall inform Mr Jones with all haste. You may expect him tomorrow, if not today. In the interim, he has been encouraging those in the early stages of the illness to take more nourishment than usual. If it is only a cold at Longbourn, I daresay a bit of hearty eating shall do no harm.”
Miss Mary was clearly relieved to have some direction on actions to take; she thanked him warmly and urged him on his way.
* * *
Darcy returned to his chambers that afternoon, half frozen and vowing to spend a month complete without riding once all of this had passed. His valet met him with a serious expression. “Sir, there is A Letter.”
Stevens had a way of slightly altering his inflection such that Darcy could see in his mind’s eye the capitalisation of certain words. It rarely boded well, and in this case, Darcy knew instantly to what he referred. Of all the unwanted correspondence he received, only one person could send ‘A Letter’. They arrived twice or thrice a year, at irregular intervals, and had done for the last several years. This one was particularly unexpected, as he had received the last only two months past. As much as he should like to ignore them, he knew he would do so at his own peril.
Darcy sighed. “I will change and warm up before I deal with that. If you would be so good as to place it atop any others which have arrived?”
His man nodded briefly and set about divesting him of his dusty riding clothes and wrapping him in a warm robe and slippers. He settled into the chair before the fire with a pot of tea, toasting his thawing toes almost too close to the flames, while the small stack of correspondence taunted him from the little table to his right.
After only a few minutes he huffed, snatched the topmost missive, and broke the unmarked wax which sealed it shut.
Darcy, you smug muckworm,
Imagine my surprise when I learnt that I had very nearly placed myself in close proximity to you. I encountered an old friend who was in town on business, and when I mentioned I had been looking to make a change, he suggested I join his regiment of militia, stationed for the winter in the town of Meryton in Hertfordshire. I do wish I could see your face as you read that.
As fate would have it, just as we were about to depart for that place, my friend got word that there was an epidemic of smallpox in the area, and he was instead to report to a regiment at Eastbourne for the duration. My friend took the opportunity to stay a few days further, and during this time he regaled me with tales of the local society.
You may picture my astonishment when your name and Bingley’s were mentioned, and likewise my lack of same when Denny related that the whole of the neighbourhood finds you ‘high and conceited’, and the most disagreeable fellow they have ever had the misfortune to know. Only think, we might have met in the street, all unexpected, if not for the sickness. I am quite sure that in such a place, among people discerning enough to see past your wealth and family to the peevish, stiff-rumped churl you truly are, I could have made many friends.
Perhaps I shall, later in the winter. Denny said there are always landowners looking to have someone or other take a post in the militia in place of a son or nephew. I may yet oblige one of them. It sounds a fine lark—a few hours of marching and shooting, and then liberty to take oneself into the town and impress the ladies with one’s scarlet coat and fine manners. But you would know nothing of impressing the ladies, would you, old monk?
Until then, I take satisfaction in knowing that you are trapped in a country house not your own, in a neighbourhood full of those you would never deign to know, with the ever-attentive Miss Bingley and your friend’s surely inadequate library to console you. You may imagine me laughing heartily, and often, as I imagine it.
G Wickham
Darcy’s feelings upon reading this were more complex than was usual after one of Wickham’s taunting missives. Annoyance and anger were his usual reaction, and certainly those were present, but now also horror at the thought that Wickham might have come intothisneighbourhood and sported with the livelihoods and daughters ofthesepeople, whom he was coming to know and care for. Dread, too, that Wickham might yet come, filled his heart, and last but not least was shame that he had made such an impression.
* * *
Not long after, Darcy intercepted Mr Jones by the staircase, and grimly related the news from Longbourn.
Mr Jones assured him he would go immediately to the Bennets’ home. “I thank you for the information,” he said. “May I ask you to relay it to Miss Elizabeth?”
